


Intoxicate

by sparki111



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Broken Heart, First Kiss, John's getting married, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparki111/pseuds/sparki111
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A sea of whiskey<br/>Couldn’t intoxicate me<br/>As much as a drop<br/>Of you.”<br/>              - J.S. Parker</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intoxicate

_“A sea of whiskey_   
_Couldn’t intoxicate me_   
_As much as a drop_   
_Of you.”_   
  
_**\- J.S. Parker**_

**  
  
**

**-O-**

**  
  
**

_“Am I a pretty lady?”_

The words reverb as lips wrap around his own. Sherlock isn’t certain as to how he found these lips; it seems as though - only moments ago - the air, the expanse before him was empty. John, across the way in his chair. Across the entropy of the universe. The last time he’d sit as he was, some small semblance of his mind had supplied. _Last time?_ he responded. Finality. Wouldn’t John come back? Would he ever come back?

The possibility of ‘no’ has left him shaken.

Lips in his. Uncertain, but _oh_ , they fit so wonderfully against his own. Such a wonderful shape. And John’s mouth is an abnormal shape. Thin in some inches, thick within another. What had they been drinking? Some variance of whiskey. Sherlock can’t remember, but John reminds him of it now. A coalition of bitter liquor and hot breath and a nameless taste that should have been repulsive, but to Sherlock’s numbed consciousness, registers only as _John_.

Fingers against his neck, in his hair. Fingers pulling at his collar, tearing back for the skin underneath. John’s body against his own. Sherlock feels the lines of his doctor’s existence; strong, small, warm. _His_ doctor. Interesting choice of words.

_But he is mine, isn’t he?_

__

_In some semblance?_

John bites into his mouth.

_No, he isn’t._

The sting is swift, sharp. In the distance, a moan, coarse and baritone. _The distance?_ No, coarse and baritone from the back of his throat.

“Sherlock.” The husk of John’s voice. “Sherlock-,”

“No.”

He doesn’t want to speak. He doesn’t want talking. Not now. Perhaps not ever. What he wants, the body in his arms is a summary of. Something obscure, uncertain and poignantly sentimental: legs locked with his, fingers searching. Mouth to mouth; no words.

_Words are empty._

“Sherlock. _Sherlock_.”

John mumbles it as a mantra. And the urge to tell the man to be quiet has dulled, because when John speaks, it rumbles through Sherlock’s body. His own name, down his throat, twisted up in the air that he can’t get enough of. Echoing around his chest as John’s fingers push against his skin.

“Sherlock.”

At some point, the mantra subsides. It’s becoming too hard to breathe. But John’s mouth remains relentless. Desperate in the way it tugs at Sherlock’s.

_Warm. He’s so warm._

It’s irreducible. John, he decides, is irreducible. Underneath his shirt, the horrendous jumper, Sherlock finds more of that warmth. Hot skin that dips when he touches it. He discovers stroking that causes John to shiver against him. Edges of his spine, the jutting of his ribs. A small, insignificant shard of mind that has not been entirely intoxicated by John’s presence brings forward for Sherlock, words that one might use to describe the act of a kiss.

_Base. Primitive. Pointless._

But these words are drowned out by _John._

John, who rocks against him. Any space that remained between them is gone. Sherlock feels the man’s heartbeat - a frantic whir, ticking away as one hundred pounds of explosives. Always racing; the game is always racing inside the two of them. It holds them together. Sherlock fights the sudden urge to laugh.

So many things hold them together.  And if he were to try and cut those things away, Sherlock fears he wouldn’t know where to begin.

“Sherlock.”

Skin against skin. John’s woolen jumper tangled with his shirt by the chair. Heart against heart.

The inevitable buzzing of John’s mobile phone.

Someone, at some point, pulls the device from the doctor’s back pocket. Sherlock holds the suspicion that he himself may be at fault.

  
**_Not wanting to crash -- just wanting to make sure you boys are still alive ;)_ **   
**_Flowers finally sorted … beautiful! Ready to go!!_ **   
**_\- Mary xx_ **

**  
  
**

Black dots of pixelation against a white screen. A cessation of movement. A dawning that even the intoxication can’t begin to disguise.

**  
  
**

**-O-**

**  
  
**

There is no acknowledgement that Sherlock cried, that night. None whatsoever.

There’s a ghost, carpet, the slamming of a cell door. John’s head resting against his leg.

And it’s as Mary had claimed: the flowers are beautiful. Smiles, smiles, always smiling.

_And Sherlock acts as though_

 

_he isn’t_

_**  
drowning.** _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - comments are love, guys... remember that ;)


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